Stephen J. Cannell - Vertical Coffin

VERTICAL COFFIN

STEPHEN J. CANNELL

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SWAT TEAMS REFER TO DOORWAYS AS "vertical coffins" because the y are most vulnerable when passing through them. The new Shane Scull y novel starts with a bang as an L . A . sheriffs deputy is gunned down on the front porch of a house while serving a routine warrant.

The arrest is given to the Sheriffs Department by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, who neglects to mention the man is suspected of hording an arsenal of illegal weapons. The shooter barricades himself in his house as multiagency SWAT teams eventually burn it to the ground with the suspect still inside.

In Scully s most terrifying case to date, two elite SWAT units from the L . A . Sheriffs Department and the ATF appear to be engaged in a deadly midnight war. Officers from both agencies are being sniped at and murdered in vertical coffins. As the violence escalates, the mayor directs the LAPD, the only uninvolved and unbiased law enforcement agency, to investigate. Shane's wife, Alexa, under orders from Chief Tony Filosiani, assigns him to the case.

Almost immediately, Scully is thrust into a nightmare of police intrigue and finds himself with no friends in law enforcement, isolated in a lethal no-man's-land between two warring agencies. In a plot full of twists and thrills, where nothing is as it appears, Shane pitts himself and his loved ones in terrible jeopardy before finally discovering the shocking and deadly truth.

retired, but she still types my weekend pages. Kathy Ezso is now on point and makes this work go smoothly, juggling more details than would seem possible. Jane Endorf is tireless and without peer. Thanks, guys. Jo Swerling is the first one to see the manuscript after it's ready. I hand it to him with shaking hands and he does the first cold read with an expert but gentle eye.

Thanks to my new agent, Robert Gottlieb at Trident Media. He has helped me redesign my thinking and career. Robert, we're on a roll.

I would like to thank all my friends at St. Martin's, especially my editor, Charles Spicer, who has been a constant source of strength, and my publisher, Sally Richardson, who has not hesitated to step up for me. Also a big thanks to Matt Baldacci, Joe Cleemann, and Mathew Shear.

At home is where my real strength lies. My children are a constant source of joy and wonder. Tawnia, you have made your dad a happy man. You are a magnificent mother and it has been a joy for me to watch you work your way up from gofer to sought-after television director (without my help). Your gifts are personal and professional. Chelsea, you continue to grow and become more awesome. Your life choices and sense of fairness signal a wonderful spirit and true heart. You are all a father could hope for. Cody, you have proven what can happen when you work for a goal and don't give up on your dreams. I have watched you mature and see that success in life comes from the inside out. You have made me proud. My wife, Marcia, holds my circus together, keeps the family on course, and changes the air in my head when it gets too full of helium. You have made all our dreams come true, babe.

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VERTICAL COFFIN: A term used by SWAT teams to describe any threshold. When clearing a house, police are most vulnerable to gunfire while passing through doorways.

PROLOGUE:

JULY , THESE COLORS DON'T RUN

They swung wide off Trancas Canyon, thirteen bikes clutching down to make the turn; high-octane Harley engines growling loudly, tearing an ugly hole in the still afternoon. Right ear down, one by one they all finished the turn and straightened up on the Pacific Coast Highway, the old Camino Real. They were ten miles northwest of Malibu, hurtling along the four-lane, timing their moves to roar around slower-moving traffic. Thirteen Harley V-twins in formation. Metal locusts growing larger and more dangerous as they swarmed, the two - second rule be damned.

They called Emo Rojas "Maniac." He was prez, so he was out front, riding point. Emo's giant shoulders reaching high to grab polished ape hangers that stretched like chrome wings over hi s b lack Harley Softail. His four-stroke roared angrily: intake, compression, combustion, exhaust. A growling black-and-silver she-devil.

Next was the ride captain Darren Zook, called "Goat" Big, with sleeveless black leathers and arms from Gold's Gym. Hard to tell where his arms stopped and the vest began--he was that black. Outrageous wraparound, chrome-rimmed darks hugged his square face like clip-on bug filters.

Behind Goat was Jabba the Slut. She'd arrived just minutes before the ride, patched in club colors. An American flag do-rag wrapped her head while ink-black shades the size of welders' goggles hid her porcelain-white face. She was club treasurer and had the ride money, so she rode third. Bulging biceps and man-sized thighs straddled the 95 V-twin of her yellow-and-black Screamin' Eagle Deuce; scuffed boots thrust forward on highway pegs.

After Jabba the Slut came the two-by-twos. Blam-Blam, on a chrome-and-black Harley Super Glide. A tub of guts in too - tight leathers with vibrating love handles. Next to him was Drill-Bit, then Johnny Bravo and Pebbles, Wart and Shooter, Mean Mike and The Rooster.

Then came Chooch and Shane Scully. Since they were not patched members of the club, only guests, they rode last: tail-gun charlies. Chooch on Emo's backup bike, a red Harley Fat Boy with a dry clutch. Shane rode Swede Petersen's modified Road King. They came out of Trancas Canyon at the end of the line, completed the turn and accelerated, hurrying to close ranks, bunching tight again, until they blocked both southbound lanes like scurrilous outlaws--riding four across, lane splitting, the throaty animal rumble of all that horsepower redefining them, the exhaust; a self-induced steroid.

You could see awe and revulsion in the eyes of the Sunday drivers they passed. The beach crowd in their SUVs looked over and saw thirteen thugs on custom choppers with mean-looking, radical fork rakes. They saw the head wraps and greasy leather s a nd quickly looked away. The club patch--the colors--rode their leathers defiantly. Across the shoulder blades in a death font was their name: IRON PIGS. Under that the logo: a fierce warthog with curling tusks and fire blowing out of its nostrils. The bottom rocker said "California."

Only the baddest club in the state was allowed to wear a bottom rocker. In the eighties that was the Hell's Angels. Then the Mongols blew in and changed all that. They shot a few Angels, ripped the bottom rockers off the dead bikers. The Mongols said you wore the California patch at your own risk. It had been the rule ever since. All bikers knew that if you were caught by a Mongol with a bottom rocker under your colors, you were dead. Mongols alone wore the patch.

Mongols, and of course, Iron Pigs.

The thirteen riders snaked down PCH. The Pacific Ocean glittered on the right, the Malibu Mountains dressed in dry, beige summer colors framed the left. Finally they turned on Mulholland Highway, climbing into the hills. Now the roar of bored pistons and straight pipes bounced off mountains, pinging loudly in the granite canyons. Another left turn off Mulholland took them to Las Flores Road, the hawgs slowing as the road wound dangerously. The late afternoon sun glinted off polished chrome and lacquered paint. A few people heard the deafening rumble and came out of their houses to watch them pass. Then up onto Puma Road, two-by-two, a growling metal centipede making its way slowly along the narrow highway.

Shane looked over at Chooch and saw him grinning. Hard not to feel the rush of all that energy and power. They were nearing the end, rolling in, loud and dangerous. Around the corner, up ahead, was a biker hangout high in the Malibu Mountains.

They rounded the last curve and saw The Rock Store. The parking lot was full. Almost a hundred bikes lined up like soldiers at parade rest, all dressed right, leaning on metal kick - stands. Mostly, it was American iron, Harleys and Indians , with a few Japanese rice-burners. The Rock Store was Mecca for Southern California bikers. It was the high church--hawg heaven.